


I have gone at dusk

by yaseanne



Category: Hellblazer
Genre: Other, POV Alternating, Shippy Gen, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 06:23:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2802689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yaseanne/pseuds/yaseanne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A winter evening, a long walk.</p><p>  <i>She began to tail him more sedately, pushing him on only when his steps slowed. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	I have gone at dusk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [APgeeksout](https://archiveofourown.org/users/APgeeksout/gifts).



> Thank you to AdaptationDecay for the beta!

It hits him when he’s passing St Thomas’ hospital. There’s a draft that blows against the wind tugging John westward towards the bridge; passersby’s jackets and scarves are merrily wafting the opposite way. He follows it partly out of curiosity, partly because it never pays to ignore the hands of whatever passes for fate these days. 

Leaves are tumbling towards him until they’re picked up by his own personal breeze and cling to his ankles. Westminster Bridge is bustling as usual with tightly wrapped figures carrying shopping bag to and fro and below him the Thames gurgles near inaudibly. The Houses of Parliament gleam in the setting sun, and he’s idly wondering where this new guiding hand will lead him and whether he has time to buy a pack of ciggies. 

He tries his luck at a newsagents next to St James’s Park but whatever it is that’s leading him apparently does not approve of stops; the more he slows his steps the faster his heart beats until he’s flushing and trembling.

“Hey, you alright, mate?” a woman passing him asks and he waves her off. He fights against his body’s instincts and quickens his pace; one step, two, and he’s walking briskly again, his heart a comforting slow pulse in his chest. _Not trying that again, then_ , he thinks. _Alright, lead on_.

He’s made it past Birdcage Walk and to his left tourists are milling around Buckingham Palace. For a wild moment he entertains the thought that his invisible puppet master might be leading him there, but the wind urges him further west.

—

She followed him through the winter evening as he made his way from streetlight to streetlight. He’d have liked to think he was a shadow passing through unobserved, but to her he shone in the setting sun. There were cameras tracking his every move, turning towards him like sunflowers and swaying with him until he’d passed into the circle of the next lens, then forgetting he ever existed. Manhole covers reverberated beneath his feet until the echo of his steps was ringing through the street and she followed the overlapping beats from south of the river to the park. 

She diverted pedestrians where she had to, intent on keeping the rhythm going. Every now and then someone would stumble over their own feet or swerve to avoid a non-existent lamp post.

—

He’s keenly aware of the presence directing his steps. Any other day he’d enjoy a walk through St James’s without having to worry about some madman or other raising things they shouldn’t. He knows better than to convince himself that he’s merely riding a wave of synchronicity, even when he reaches Hyde Park corner and the wind abates. Whatever -whoever - it is that’s leading him likely has a more sinister motive. 

There’s a small man standing on a footstool, speaking to an audience that might be entirely in his imagination.

“… now there’s an arseholewho says he speaks for us, but he’s forgotten where he came from…”

John lets out a breath. Is this familiar tirade what he’s come to hear?

“John?” The familiar voice breaks him out of his reverie. Chas is standing behind him, laden with four shopping bags. “What are you doing here, mate?”

John eyes him warily, wondering whether whatever has him in its grip controls his friend as well.

“Just out for a stroll.”

Chas laughs. “John Constantine on foot. Don’t think my poor heart can take it.”

John frowns. “Don’t you start.” He looks at the speaker on his little stool, continuing a sermon that must have begun when the Romans crossed the river.

“… we’re the people! They can’t lock us up!”

Chas notices his interest. “Thinking of becoming a politician?”

John snorts. “Sure. My soul’s already bound towards hell anyway.” A puff of wind is pushing at his coat-tails. His heart starts pounding.

“Listen mate, I’ve got to move.” He gestures vaguely.

“Important magic business?” Chas asks and John smirks.

“What else?”

He waves goodbye and turns, letting the current drag him back east, then north toward Mayfair. The wind is less urgent but changes direction more often; he’s forced to take turns again and again.

—

She began to tail him more sedately, pushing him on only when his steps slowed. Once he’d cleared the park he became a small flame zig-zagging from pavement to pavement, the sun at his back. A man who’d recognized him and set to follow him found himself tangled in newspapers slapping against his legs and his path cut off by a string of speeding cars. She watched the distance between them grow with satisfaction. He would hunt his quarry another day. Tonight, John Constantine was hers alone.

—

He hastens down Great Russell Street, caught in his own current. He gets a brief respite in front of the British Museum. The Galleries are closing and people are exiting the building in small groups. He takes a moment to light a cigarette. He’s got six left; whatever the purpose of his meandering tonight, he hopes it won’t take him too far - either in the city or the places beyond. A passing car slows, then reverses, and he braces himself for anything that might come. He’s hardly armed, but then he never is. A lighter, a piece of chalk and a bit of bullshit will do in a pinch.

The window is rolled down.

“John, darling.” Clarice Sackville is smiling at him. “What brings you out tonight? Don’t tell me you’re visiting the Museum as well?”

He bends to look at her and sneak a glance into the car. She’s alone. _In for a penny_ , he thinks. Clarice’s vast knowledge might once again come in handy.

“Got someone tugging the strings,” he says. Clarice eyes him carefully and beckons him forward. When he puts his hand in the open window she covers it with hers and draws a circle on the back. His fingers twitch; it’s not something he’d allow under normal circumstances.

“No, I’m sorry,” Clarice finally says. “I can’t see anyone.” John shrugs.

“Worth a try.” He stubs out the cigarette beneath his heel. “What are you doing at our treasure hoard?”

She laughs. “For once, the exhibition is on our own history. _London through the ages_.”

“Anything interesting?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “Everything is safe for the public,” she says. He’s grateful for that, at least. He’s had enough ugly surprises when innocent (or less innocent) tourists picked up stuff they weren’t supposed to.

The wind tugs at him again. He shivers.

“Got to go,” he mumbles.

“Good luck,” Clarice says. He watches her car move away slowly, becoming one with the mass of locals and visitors on their way home, to dinner, to the theatre. He tugs up his collar and moves on. The wind is blowing harshly south.

—

The beat of his footsteps had turned into a complicated rhythm of almost-circling drums. She felt herself react to it, traffic lights switching and bells ringing in sync. The steps of others began to conform as well, until every living and non-living thing in his wake moved in an almost imperceptible dance. To her it was a heartbeat, a pulse that filled every corner of her body.

He was walking past the theatres towards Covent Garden and the street performers took up the dance as if gripped by a wave. She exalted in it, each step a physical connection between them. London was entirely focused on John Constantine.

—

The one guiding him has broadened his control. John watches the crowds surreptitiously as he passes, and more than one person is moving in step with him. It’s started to rain in a light drizzle and the wind that is taking him to Waterloo Bridge is blowing the drops against his neck. 

He takes stock once again, disquieted by his lack of resources. The list of enemies that could - and would - do this is worryingly long. He’s certain half of them are not even known to him. The other pedestrians are clearing a path for him, looking at him without recognition. He moves on steadily, the Southbank buildings throwing shadows around him. 

Between one step and the next, he gathers his thoughts and attempts to slip into an adjacent plane, but is stopped short. Everything is closed to him. He nearly stops walking, but the fresh breeze and the flutter of his heart reminds him of his predicament.

All realms are closed. The astral plane is blank - not that he could access it anyway this quickly - and so are the alternate paths. A sliver of fear grips him, and he lights another cigarette - three left now - and sucks on it hastily. The burn at least is familiar.

He almost misses the turn. His feet are taking him down Waterloo Road, further and further south, when the wind turns sharply and almost knocks him off his feet. He’s going west again, apparently, and he entertains the horrifying idea of walking in an endless triangle around London, retracing his steps again and again.

The wind lets up a few yards further though. A group of businessmen in posh suits forms a wall in front of him; when he turns, three people have interlocked their bicycles and are arguing avidly. Traffic has stalled on the street with cars standing bumper to bumper. There is only one direction left. A door in front of him leads to an art installation. 

The Vaults are low-ceilinged and silent. He walks through an empty movie theatre and a hallway lit in orange and violet. There’s no obvious current guiding his steps anymore, but an urgency that drives him onwards, past corridors decorated with tapestries and illuminated by single beams of light. Finally, he reaches a wide archway that ends in a blind alley. The stones of the floor, previously uniform, are a discordant arrangement of varying shapes and sizes. He crouches down to study them. Even now he knows better than to touch.

It takes him an embarrassing amount of time to discern the pattern. After long moments, he rises. He won’t need the wind anymore; he knows his destination.

—

She was close to him now. She had given up on subtlety, certain that he could feel her. He’d taken the Northern Line and she’d emptied a compartment for him. In the rest of the train, commuters stood packed tight, their paths inconsequential in comparison to his. He’d hesitated before entering and thrown a glance at the nearest CCTV camera as if braced for disaster. She would not lead him astray though. Not tonight.

He exited at Charing Cross and she did not wait for him to trick the ticket gates; they all flashed green for him, letting him pass with ease. He turned north and walked slowly to the place she had prepared for them.

Behind him, the chain of John Constantine’s footprints lay unbroken.

—

He stops when he reaches Trafalgar Square. Everything is quiet. The wind is silent now, the people and cars stand still. The only things moving are the birds, swirling in murmurations around Nelson’s Column. He can feel the presence clinging to him like a shadow, but he doesn’t feel threatened. Instead he looks up at the four platforms and suddenly, he understands.

“I’ll be damned,” he chuckles. How often has he called London his city? It has never occurred to him that it would go both ways.

As the sun sets, John Constantine stands on the Fourth plinth and lets London claim him.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Yuletide, APgeeksout! I told you that I hoped someone would write a fic in this fandom for you... and ended up doing it myself. /facepalm


End file.
